The Poison Morality

by Stacey Kathleen

  “Good thing it’s men that do the raping then, it doesn’t take them long to have it off,” she said with no emotion behind it, she closed her eyes and rested her arm across her face. And there it was, he thought, the answer.

  Oliver closed his eyes. He had seen it enough at the hospital and he managed to stay disconnected from it. That was the only way he could help them. He was not so lucky with Sophie. Standing, he pushed back any emotion.

  She felt the weight of him when he sat beside her, resting one arm across the back of the sofa moving her hand away from her face but she turned her head away instead. “Look at me, please,” he whispered and she opened her eyes and focused on his squared chin slightly rough with the day’s stubble and her gaze wandered upwards until she stared into his blue eyes, filled with worry for her, no one ever felt that for her before Oliver, not even she did.

  “Is that what happened to you? Was that what was so terrible that living rough was the better alternative?” His voice barely above a whisper, the look of concern on his face was genuine and because of that she gave an answer, letting the alcohol speak for her.

  “Why I ran away? Because of Declan, my stepfather,” she squeaked out, her mouth suddenly dry, a lump in her throat forming. Embarrassment and anger filled her, not because he was asking the question but because to answer was to remember.

  She looked at him with an intense scowl. “Why would I tell you? Why make me dredge up the past that doesn’t matter now and why do you care?” She tried to push herself up but he was blocking her. For a moment she felt herself separate from the reality, she realized the only way to get him to move was to succumb to his questioning, satisfy his curiosity and his need for the answers.

  Her body felt heavy and all she wanted to do now was sleep, she didn’t care what he knew. She would tell him and if he wanted to never talk to her again that was his decision but once the thought crossed her mind she felt a foreboding. “I’m sure you can figure it out.”

  He was determined not to let the subject go, it was the root to everything even if she didn’t see it yet. She shook her head no and put her hand against his chest to push him away and turned her face into the cushion, trembling. He put his hand on hers and shushed her. His lips pressed against her forehead and she relaxed again at this familiar gesture of affection either genuine or coaxing she didn’t know. He stayed close to her but didn’t ask her to look at him but instead whispered in her ear. “If I ask you, will you nod to tell me if I’m right or not and then you won’t have to say anything?”

  For a few seconds she didn’t know how to answer but was distracted by his brazen closeness. The back of one hand hid her eyes, the other formed a fist set against his chest as a warning but she didn’t resist him now. Instead she let him dwell there so she could feel the warmth from him and his breath on her ear; she nodded yes without thinking, just wanting him to linger there. Thankful she didn’t need to speak because the lump in her throat wouldn’t allow it without tears and she refused to cry.

  “Did he hurt you?”

  Sophie shook her head yes.

  “Did he hit you?”

  Uncurling her fist, she pressed her index finger against his chest. He silently acknowledged it.

  “Did he force you to do something you didn’t want to do?”

  She shook her head yes. He paused as all her fingers pressed against his chest signalling that the question was close to the truth and she was instinctively pushing.

  “Did he touch you?”

  She nodded yes and she pressed harder.

  “Did he…. molest you,” the word even stuck in his throat but in the hospital he had seen all manner of worse than what he was asking so he pressed through it.

  “Yes,” the answer came out so quiet he wasn’t sure he heard her correctly but she was trying to push him away with the little bit of weak energy she had. He sighed, stroked her hair and laid his forehead on hers.

  “How many times did he do this?”

  Too tired to speak, she indicated with her right hand by pressing her forefinger, then her middle finger, and then her ring finger against his chest and her hand slid down his chest when she passed out.

  Oliver kissed her temple and sat up again, leaving her be. Sitting on the side of the sofa, he put his elbows on his knees and covered his face, massaging his forehead, contemplating. He only had more questions. Not a jilted boyfriend, not a bad breakup, he was disappointed it was worse than that.

  Poor Sophie, he dare not touch her while she slumbered so peacefully, softly snoring. He felt sad, hurt, angry for her. The only thing to do was shake it off, just like any other patient. He could do that tomorrow; tonight he would allow all those dark and sad feelings until there was nothing of those emotions left to feel. Covering her with a throw and finishing the bottle she opened, he then went to bed.

  Even more questions came to mind. Did Declan do the same to Sydney? Is that why they didn’t know about each other? Why they weren’t raised together? And is this why she was compelled to do the work she did? Was it some type of revenge? He didn’t think it was or she wouldn’t react as she does. Question after question came until he fell asleep.

  Chapter 22: The Revelation of the Past

  The light felt like something physically pressing on her eyes. Trying to lift her head, it throbbed at the temples and she let it drop back onto the pillow, too heavy to hold up. Sophie groaned not really able to form words until she was fully awake.

  Oliver, hearing her slightly come back to life, came in and closed the curtains, lowering the intensity of light on her. Brushing the hair off her face, he sat beside her, waiting while she feebly sat up. “What’s wrong with me?”

  He handed her a mug of tea with two pills, “It’s herbal, not as sweet as you like but it will help settle your stomach, these will help your head. You drank almost two whole bottles of wine by yourself last night,” he sounded somewhat impressed if not amused.

  With one hand she took the mug and with the other she popped the aspirin in her mouth, followed by a drink of tea. She looked down at it and grimaced, setting it forgotten on the table. Oliver held a dish of dry toast out to her already chewing a piece. “My head feels like it’s in a vice and you really don’t need to yell.”

  “I wasn’t yelling,” he said slightly above a whisper, the creases in his face deepened when he smiled at her. “Congratulations, you’ve achieved your first hangover.”

  “And my last,” she grunted, attempting to nibble the toast but the dryness scratched the back of her throat and made her almost gag, even the crunching sound in her head was too intense.

  Setting the dish on her lap, he stood up. She went rigid and her eyes got wide, realizing when he set the dish on her legs that the only thing between it and her was the throw. “Where are my trousers,” she asked suspiciously.

  Oliver became occupied with looking around for them, toast hanging out of his mouth, finding them on the floor, folding them, and neatly placing them on the back of the sofa, “Here they are,” he answered casually.

  Something strange was going on, something very strange indeed. “Don’t look so worried,” he sat beside her, taking the dish and placing it carefully on the coffee table so it wouldn’t make any noise then leaning an arm on the back of the sofa stretching in front of her. “Do you remember anything about last night?”

  Sliding back down, the cushion again taking the weight of her throbbing head, Sophie closed her eyes; brows furrowed trying to remember what happened. “Are you asking me because something did happen?”

  “You don’t remember anything at all?” There was something familiar about how he hovered over her.

  “It hurts to think, Oliver, why don’t you just tell me. If I can stand knowing,” she opened one eye to look at him but closed it again, bracing for what he was about to reveal.

  “You,” he cleared his throat and continued, “tried to have sex with me last night.”

  Her eyes flew open sceptically glaring at him
and she looked at her trousers on the back of the sofa then back to him accusingly.

  “You did that sometime in the night, I didn’t.” Oliver shook his head no as affirmation to what he was saying.

  Her stomach rolled. She closed her eyes again trying to remember, her fingers went to her lips, recalling a kiss, and she was on top of him. She could feel her cheeks burning, “You can’t be serious I don’t even do sex,” she mumbled, thinking out loud as opposed to actually replying.

  “I know,” Oliver smiled at her.

  Her head snapped up, “We didn’t, did we?”

  “Would it have been so very bad if we did,” he paused, her mouth hung open not sure what to say when he continued, “We didn’t, not even after you fiddled with my buttons.” It was his attempt to make light of the situation but it backfired when she became defensive.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, I didn’t fiddle with your buttons,” she squinted, “wait, you know what, exactly,” referring to his comment of a moment ago.

  “I know why you don’t do sex, as you put it. You told me why.”

  “What do you mean, I told you why,” she was exasperated by his elusiveness of the events of the night before but she wasn’t completely sure she wanted to know what other humiliating thing she did but when he insinuated that she told him why she didn’t have sex, bile started to rise.

  “When you were trying to seduce me,” he looked amused, “some other things came out. I was hoping you would remember that part,” he looked concerned, which scared her even more, all her nerves prickled.

  She paused again, trying to remember. She remembered he hovered over her much as he did now, “And let me guess, you were being inquisitive and you took advantage?”

  Oliver shook his head, somewhat in agreement if he was being truthful, “I…asked questions, and you answered them.”

  Oliver second guessed whether or not he should tell her the whole truth of what she had told him even though once her head cleared she would remember and then perhaps be too embarrassed to see him again. If he did tell her she may do that anyway, best to tell her and put her mind at ease, to know she had an ally in life.

  “Well?” The anticipation was making her more skittish than the hangover.

  “Sophie,” he started, remaining quiet, taking her hands when she started ringing them nervously to make her stop, “last night you told me about,” he paused again, “what happened to you. Well not details but you told me about,” he waited momentarily to see if she could recall on her own and simply said her stepfather’s name, “Declan.”

  Her bloodshot eyes glazed over. With his thumb, he started caressing her hand to keep her calm but he could feel her pulse quicken. “I think I’m going to be sick,” she pushed him off and jumped up, bare-legged and ran to the bathroom, taking the few seconds she had to lock the door behind her, dropping to the toilet and vomiting. She vomited the wine, the shame, the embarrassment, and the words that had already left her mouth the night before to Oliver.

  She vomited again, Oliver’s voice muffled behind the door; she couldn’t hear what he was saying. She would have felt betrayed but the reality is that he didn’t force it out of her and it was a minor thing compared to how she felt about everything else.

  Oliver stood outside the door, his palm flat on the door as if he could reach her that way. “Please open the door; you don’t need to feel anything but…. relief.” He tried to speak but she had vomited a second time and he slid to the floor sitting, waiting for her to be done.

  Empty now, she scrambled up to the sink. After a few minutes of silence he heard the water, “There’s a spare toothbrush in the cabinet.” He heard her dig through the cabinet in the dark and then the click of the light and a whimper. She brushed her teeth and he waited patiently and then the light clicked off again. Silence.

  Sophie sat on the floor, her hand on the door as if she could sense him on the other side, her cheek rested on the cool tiles on the wall. What she wished is that he would go away, so she could sneak out and go back to her flat and quietly die of shame and embarrassment and she couldn’t open the door and see in his face the pity, if this new found knowledge changed the way he looked at her. That was the worst she could imagine. Horrified by the idea that she had told him what her stepfather had done made her heart race in her chest.

  Fighting back the tears she opened her mouth to ask him to leave her be so she could go out in peace but if she was true to herself she didn’t want that either. There was relief actually, a burden that was lighter somehow. Her legs were cold but her face was hot and she rested her cheek on the cool wall, the towel across her legs. When she thought of him just as a doctor it was less humiliating then when she thought of him as her friend, as a person with feelings.

  Before she could say anything, his voice sounded on the other side of the door, “Sophie,” he said in that soft way that somehow calmed her nerves, “you didn’t give me details.” He waited but when she still didn’t open the door or speak he continued, “Working at the hospital, I’ve seen all the terrible things that people do to one another. I’m sorry that happened to you. If I could change it for you I would.”

  There it was, she thought, the pity in his voice but he continued following his own thought, “It’s not like one single traumatic experience changes you suddenly but lingers forever, it influences the decisions that you make and shapes who you are. It became ingrained in you, changing your perception of yourself until all you saw was what he did but you’re not that girl and he can’t hurt you anymore.” He paused when he heard the lock click and the door creaked open, all he could see were her legs and feet and he didn’t dare look at her yet, as much as he wanted to pull her out and hold her.

  “And what do you see,” she asked, having nothing to lose at this point, she braced for the answer.

  “Not that it matters but I see a beautiful, lonely woman who is stronger than she believes, with a distorted view of men and intimacy. But what’s more important is that the things you believe are normal are things you are entitled to Sophie. Like everyone else. No matter what has been done to you, they can’t take that away from you.”

  Sophie shifted around so that her shoulder rested in the doorway and he turned so that he could see her, still not daring to touch her.

  “Is that how you saw me before I told you what happened,” Sophie whispered, her head starting to clear but still feeling heavy, the towel she was still clutching draped across her thighs. Modesty didn’t seem so important anymore after she had told him her darkest secret.

  “How I see you and how I feel about you haven’t changed. But maybe it’s changed how you feel about me,” he was poised waiting for an answer.

  That was an odd statement. She lifted her head; the revelation of what he was saying made her feel better about how he felt her. That he was worried about it too. And it did change the way she felt about him. She wouldn’t have realized it if he had not brought it to her attention. What she thought about her didn’t change but yes for him it did. He may, very well be the first real friend she ever had.

  Regarding her silence as negative instead of contemplative, something that Mary had told him came to mind he relayed to her not word for word but as he could express it to Sophie.

  “Someone recently told me that the great thing about memories is that they don’t exist in reality, the reality is gone. Therefore, we can choose at will to remember the good or the bad memories. We can play them out over and over trying to make ourselves feel good or to worry that the past will repeat itself,” he reached over and took her hand, she allowed him to hold it, not clutching his, her graceful fingers rested across his. “If you don’t have enough good memories, I want to create some with you, that’s what I’ve been trying to do, as your friend,” his thumb massaged each of her fingers in turn, “perhaps more one day, perhaps not, I don’t know.”

  “Even after what I did last night,” she was starting to relax while he caressed her hand, the headache easing
a little.

  “Everyone has done something they regretted while intoxicated and not intoxicated for that matter. Once, while at university, I ran naked through the women’s dorms, so I heard, from several sources,” hearing her laugh, he couldn’t resist and turned to see her face, the pale skin turning red from her amusement, her hand covering her mouth. “Ah, I’m glad you think my humiliation is comical,” he started to laugh too, “It was I guess.”

  Sophie brought the towel up to hide her laughing at him when he saw the scars on her legs and his smile faded. She was so used to them that she had forgotten them; her eyes followed his. “You know what they are?”

  “Yes, I know. Is it related to what happened,” he traced each of the four scars on her thigh with his thumb. He could tell that they were self-mutilation scars and they had been deep but thankfully old now, possibly because those feelings manifested to an outward destruction with poison.

  “I only told one other person about what happened to me and it didn’t go so well. Mum knew something was wrong when I had to go to hospital,” she didn’t elaborate on why she was in the hospital and he didn’t ask but waited for her to continue.

  “When we got home that night, I blurted it out, the whole time staring at the hole burned into the carpet from one of her cigarettes, Dunhills, they were. It was a miracle she didn’t burn the house down. She staggered up to me stinking of cigarettes and liquor with her perfect make up, perfect nails, and perfect hair and she looked me up and down and said to me, ‘what else do you expect men to do with you walking around like that? They can’t control themselves, you know.’ Sophie mimicked a drunken slur.

  “But I don’t think she ever really believed me, or she just didn’t want to.” Sophie fidgeted, spreading the towel over her legs, moving Oliver’s hand away. He sat in silence.